August 13th, 2015
As the public is consumed with the headlines about Hillary Clinton’s emails, Donald Trump and Bernie Sanders’ surge in the polls, the battle over President Obama’s agreement with Iran — we are entering the Hebrew month of Elul, which offers not just respite from the fray but the ability to transcend the immediate here and now, and infuse that perspective into current events, allowing the big picture to inform the small picture.
Clearly the rise of “outsiders” in the bid for the US presidency indicates the public’s frustration and even anger with the establishment. People are desperate for change, for honesty, for leadership, for hope and for something new. What better time for the renewal that the new year brings. What can Elul, which prepares us for the new year, teach us about these matters?
*
It is invisible, but always with us. It brings growth, but also death. It can be our greatest enemy, but also our best friend. It’s always moving, yet unwavering. It can bring hope but also hopelessness. Its nature is change, and it changes nature. It seasons us, teaches us experience, but also erodes us. It can work for us or against us. It is never neutral, and it never stops.
What is it?
Time.
The human race has conquered space. We have cleared out wildernesses and turned them into cities. Travel and telecommunications have allowed us to transcend great distances.
But what about time: Have we conquered time? Most people would answer that we can’t conquer time; we can manage it, but never conquer it, because the clock continues to tick whether we like it or not. We cannot stop the clock nor can we turn it back.
Jewish thought however always made it a goal to conquer time. It wasn’t enough to manage time, but actually conquer it. We sanctify time – Shabbat and holidays.
Time is energy, the Zohar explains. Each moment is potent, filled with enormous power. Each moment is an opportunity, never neutral. By tapping the energy of time, we conquer it. When we utilize and actualize the energy of the moment, time becomes our ally, launching us into another dimension. If we do not use the moment, the moment “dies,” and like deadweight it contributes to the erosion of our beings, as the clock of our lives ticks down.
We have the power to eternalize each moment in our lives. By filling it with meaning and spirit, time doesn’t merely pass; rather it becomes a catalyst for achieving immortality.
Look at your day. How many of its moments are just fleeting specks lost in the shuffle of life? But then comes that one moment – just one second – that can turn into magic, into an experience that lives on forever.
Imagine if you were able to turn all your moments into eternity. That is someone who has mastered the art of time, someone like Abraham, who “came into his days,” he tapped all the energy of his days, turning them all into eternal pilots.
This is the power and the mystery of the Jewish calendar: Each day, week and month is defined by its unique energy. By appreciating the personality of each time segment, time becomes our greatest asset; a silent but powerful partner in life’s journey.
***
We are now about to enter a most powerful time of the year: The Hebrew month of Elul. The energy of this month is love and reconciliation.
In this month Moses climbed the mountain for the third and final time, to gain forgiveness from G-d for the people who had sinned by building the Golden Calf.
The days of Elul are therefore called ‘days of grace’ or days of ‘compassion,’ because in this period G-d was open to listening to Moses – and Moses was successful in his appeal for forgiveness and renewal. Ever since, the month of Elul serves as the month of Divine mercy and forgiveness.
Elul is the story of Moses’ journey. It is the story of building a true and enduring relationship, even after it has been challenged. Moses’ Elul experience provides us with a special energy of love and compassion during this month, when the “King is in the field” and radiates the Thirteen Attributes of Compassion.
This applies to human relationships as well, which are but a manifestation of the relationship between man and G-d. One of the acronyms of Elul is: Ani l’dodi v’dodi li, meaning “I am to my beloved, and my beloved is to me.” (“Song of Songs” 6:3). It is a month when we can find true reciprocal love.
Nothing great is born in a vacuum. The compassion and love of Elul is produced from the pain of the previous month of Av, when the Temple was destroyed. The mazal (sign) of the month of Menachem Av is the Aryeh (Leo), an acronym for Elul, Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur, Hoshana Rabba – four milestones in this time period, all built from the pain and destruction of Av.
I was once asked by a program director who was planning a lecture I was to deliver, “what do you find are the top issues people want to hear about?” I replied, that on top of the list, hands-down, is the topic of love, relationships, intimacy, sexuality. This definitely is the number one topic people are interested in. And number two is the issue of pain and suffering. [I know some of you may suggest to include up there “financial planning,” “how to become a millionaire,” but that’s for another discussion].
Without missing a beat, the program director, said to me: “Those aren’t two topics; they are one and the same…”
How true. Love and pain are two sides of one coin: The coin of your emotional life. When our emotions are awake and active they are sensitive to all feelings: Both love and pain. When you love and are loved you are vulnerable to being hurt as well. When you are locked and detached, you may not get hurt, but also will not get love.
Not to suggest that all love must bring pain. But being vulnerable means that you can potentially experience sadness.
The sadness of the month of Av was a testimony to sensitivity – feeling the pain of life and recognizing that work is needed to repair a fractured relationship.
What is our biggest mistake: The mistake itself or the inability – the fear – to acknowledge it?
Without awareness of the loss, reconciliation will not be possible and healthy love will never be achieved. One who knows how to weep over a loss, knows how to love. When you cry when you need to cry, you will laugh when you need to laugh. Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy (Psalms 126:5).
The love of Elul is thus borne out of the pain of Av. As such, the love will endure forever, having been ruptured, tested and rebuilt. The power of the High Holidays is a product of the work done on the previous two months of Av and Elul.
We stand now in these special days. We must tap into the energy of the time and release its enormous power – power that can change our lives in a real way; power that can introduce a new dimension of love into your life.
For this reason I composed the book 60 DAYS: A Spiritual Guide to the High Holidays, as a step-by-step guide though this fascinating personal and psychological journey. [Go here to subscribe to our 60 Days daily e-mail].
We all have challenges in our lives. Current events are exposing the deep void and hunger for change and hope. Yet we also have tools, assets, strengths that help us face these challenges. One of the greatest of these assets is always there beside us, beneath us, within us and within all that we do. That asset is TIME. Every moment is an opportunity – packed with powerful energy.
The 60 Days begin this Shabbat, August 15th. Use the time well. Your return will far surpass your investment.
*
For an elaborate discussion on this topic, please go here to view Rabbi Jacobson’s latest class broadcast from Jerusalem: Love is in the Air – Elul in Jerusalem.
Tags: time, Elul, time management, love
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August 9th, 2015
[Abraham] established an eshel (wayside inn) at Be’er Sheva; and he called there in the name of G-d, L-rd of the world
Genesis 21:33
The Talmud explains that in addition to providing hospitality to desert wayfarers, Abraham’s inn also served as a center for bringing the truth of the One G-d to a pagan world. When Abraham’s guests wished to bless him for his generosity, he would say to them: “Has the food you have eaten been provided by myself? You should thank, praise and bless He who spoke the world into being!”[19]
For those who nevertheless resisted acknowledging G-d as their creator and provider, Abraham employed a less amiable tactic. The Midrash relates how Abraham would then demand payment for the food they had eaten.
“How much do I owe you?” the guest would ask. “A jug of wine is one fulrin,” Abraham would say; “a pound of meat, one fulrin; a loaf of bread, one fulrin.” When the guest would protest these exorbitant prices, Abraham would counter: “Who supplies you with wine in the middle of the desert? Who supplies you with meat in the desert? Who supplies you with bread in the desert?” “When the guest would realize the predicament he was in,” the Midrash concludes, he would relent and proclaim: “Blessed be the G-d of the world, from Whose providence we have eaten.”[20]
But what value, we might ask, was there in such a unwilling proclamation, extracted under pressure? Was this not a mere mouthing of words, devoid of any conviction as to the truth of the One G-d or any desire to thank Him for His providence?
But Abraham had a vision of humanity which convinced him that every positive deed, word or thought does have value, no matter how “superficial” or “hypocritical” it might seem to a less discerning eye. When Abraham looked at his guests, he did not see pagans, idolaters and fetishists who “worshipped the dust of their feet”[21]; he saw creatures of G-d, men and women who had been created in the divine image and who possessed a potential, inherent to the very essence of their being, to recognize their Creator and serve His will.
Most often, a kind word and a helping hand will bring to light this inner potential. At times, however, a soul might be so encrusted by negative influences and a corrupted character that a certain degree of “pressure” must be applied to quell its resistance to a G-dly deed. (Of course, any use of such “pressure” must conform to the dictates of G-d’s Torah, whose “ways are ways of pleasantness, and all its pathways are peace”[22]—as in the case of Abraham’s fully legitimate demand for payment.)
Abraham understood that no human acknowledgment of G-d can ever be “hypocritical.” On the contrary: a pagan belief and behavior is the ultimate hypocrisy, for it is at variance with the person’s quintessential being and innermost will. When a creature of G-d proclaims “Blessed be the G-d of the world from Whose providence we have eaten,” nothing can be more consistent with his or her innermost self.
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Sivan 2, 5730 (June 6, 1970)[23]
The Years of his Youth
And Abraham arose in the morning… and he took his two youths with him… and he went to the place that G-d had commanded him
Genesis 22:3
Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov points out that the Hebrew words shenei ne’arav (“his two youths”) can also be read shenei ne’urav (“the years of his youth”). Not only did Abraham rush to fulfill the divine will with speed and alacrity, he also brought all the energy, passion and commitment of his youth to the deed.
Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber. Art by Audrey Grider.
[19]. Talmud, Sotah 10a-b.
[20]. Midrash Rabbah, Bereishit 49:4; cited in Tosefot Shantz on Talmud, ibid.
[21]. See Rashi on Genesis 18:4.
[23]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XV, pp. 122-128.
Tags: inner self, truth, Divine Unity, commitment, Abraham, youth, energy, passion, hypocrisy, potential, soul, Divine will, belief, idol worship
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August 9th, 2015
It was Chanukah eve, and a large group of chassidim had gathered in the home of Rabbi Dovid of Tolna to witness their Rebbe’s lighting of the menorah. Rabbi Dovid held the lighted shammash in hand, and prepared to recite the blessings; suddenly, he turned to one of the assembled chassidim and asked:
“I’ve always wondered: You are a very tall fellow, while your wife is a short woman. What do you do when you wish to speak to each other? Do you stoop down to her or does she crane upward toward you?”
Without waiting for a reply, the Rebbe turned his attention to the menorah, set on a stool in the doorway, recited the blessings, and lit the flames.
Later, a chassid explained the Rebbe’s mysterious remark. The Talmud tells us that, as a rule, “the Divine Presence does not descend to lower than ten tefachim (approx. 31 inches) above the ground.”[18] And yet, the laws of Chanukah specify that it is preferable to place the menorah below this height.[19] This, says the Kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria,[20] is an expression of G-d’s great love for His people: the Divine Groom stoops down to commune with His bride Israel.
Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.
[18]. Talmud, Sukkah 5a.
[19]. Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim, 671:6.
[20]. “The Holy Ari,” 1534-1572.
Tags: light, G-d's love, menorah, marriage, Rabbi Dovid Tolna, Chanukah, Israel, Chassidic stories
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August 9th, 2015
When Elazar ben Durdaia (a notorious sinner who had committed every transgression in the book) found that all his appeals for assistance had been turned down, he said: “It all depends entirely on myself.” He placed his head between his knees and wept until his soul departed from him. A voice from heaven then announced: “Rabbi Elazar ben Durdaia is destined for life in the world to come!” Hearing this, Rabbi [Judah Hanassi] wept: “There are those who acquire their world in many years, and there are those who acquire their world in a single moment.”
Talmud, Avodah Zarah 17a
In the world we inhabit, more is less and less is more. Quantitatively, the earth is but a tiny speck in a vast universe; in significance, it is the focus of G-d’s creation. Of the earth itself, inanimate matter constitutes virtually all of its mass, only a minute fraction of which are living cells. Plant life is more plentiful than animal life, and animals far more numerous than humans. Within the human being, the head, seat of man’s most sophisticated faculties, is smaller than the torso or limbs. In a word, the greater the quality, the lesser the quantity.
The same is true of man’s most precious resource: time. Quality time–time that is most optimally and fulfillingly utilized–comprises but a quantitative fraction of the time we consume. How many minutes of each day do we spend on truly meaningful things? The bulk of our hours are taken up with earning a living, sleeping, eating, and fulfilling a host of social and other obligations—worthy pursuits them all, but secondary to the purpose of our lives.
The very structure of time, as designed by its Creator, follows the “less is more” model. There are six mundane workdays, leading to a single day of spirit and tranquility. Yom Kippur–the “Shabbat of Shabbats”[1] whose twenty-six hours bring us in touch with our deepest, most essential self–occupies less than 0.3 percent of the year. Everything we do takes time, but the greater the quality of our endeavor, the less the quantity of time it consumes.
The most potent of human deeds is teshuvah—our ability to rectify and sublimate past wrongdoings by returning to the timeless, inviolable core of self which was never tainted by sin in the first place. And teshuvah is the least “time-consuming” of events: the essence of teshuvah is a single wrench of self, a single flash of regret and resolve.[2] “There are those who acquire their world in many years,” says the Talmud, building it brick by brick with the conventional tools of achievement. Then there are those who acquire their world in “a single moment”[3]—in a single, timeless instant that molds the future and redefines the past.
Based on a public letter by the Rebbe, Erev Shabbat Shuvah 5739 (October 6, 1978)[4]
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[1] Leviticus 16:31 et al.
[2] Thus the Talmud (Kiddushin 49b) rules that “If a man betroths a woman, contingent upon the condition that he is a tzaddik (perfectly righteous individual), she is considered as possibly married to him, even if he is an utterly wicked man—for perhaps, at the moment that he betrothed her, he had a thought of teshuvah.”
[3] The Hebrew word the Talmud uses, sha’ah, is a basic term for “time unit,” and translates as both “hour” and “moment.” The word also means “turn,” implying the shift from state to state that is the elementary measure of time and the essence of teshuvah.
[4] Likkutei Sichot, vol. XIX, pp. 593-596.
Tags: time, purpose of life, Rebbe's letters, Shabbat, transformation, Yom Kippur, sin, Rebbe, teshuvah
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August 8th, 2015
G-d, how long?!
Psalms 90:13
The story is told of a simple, unlettered Jew who kept a tavern on a distant crossroads many days’ journey from the nearest Jewish community. One year, he decided to make the trip to the Jewish town for Rosh HaShanah.
When he entered the shul on Rosh HaShanah morning, it was already packed with worshippers and the service was well underway. Scarcely knowing which way to hold the prayer book, he draped his tallit over his head and took an inconspicuous place against the back wall.
Hours passed. Hunger was beginning to gnaw at his insides, but impassioned sounds of prayer around him showed no signs of abating. Visions of the sumptuous holiday meal awaiting him at his lodgings made his eyes water in pain. What was taking so long? Haven’t we prayed enough? Still the service stretched on.
Suddenly, as the cantor reached a particularly stirring passage, the entire congregation burst into tears. “Why is everyone weeping?” wondered the tavernkeeper. Then it dawned on him. Of course! They, too, are hungry. They, too, are thinking of the elusive meal and endless service. With a new surge of self-pity he gave vent to his anguish; a new wail joined the others as he, too, bawled his heart out.
But after a while the weeping let up, finally quieting to a sprinkling of exceptionally pious worshippers. Our hungry tavernkeeper’s hopes soared, but the prayers went on. And on. Why have they stopped crying? he wondered. Are they no longer hungry?
Then he remembered the cholent. What a cholent he had waiting for him! Everything else his wife had prepared for the holiday meal paled in comparison to that cholent. He distinctly remembered the juicy chunk of meat she had put into the cholent pot when she set it on the fire the previous afternoon. And our tavernkeeper knew one thing about cholent: the longer it cooks, the more sumptuous it is. He’d glanced under the lid on his way to shul this morning, when the cholent had already been going for some eighteen hours: Good, he’d sniffed approvingly, but give it another few hours, and ahhhh… A few hours of aching feet and a hollow stomach are a small price to pay considering what was developing in that pot with each passing minute.
Obviously, that’s what his fellow worshippers are thinking, as well. They, too, have cholents simmering on their stovetops. No wonder they’ve stopped crying. Let the service go on, he consoled himself, the longer the better.
And on the service went. His stomach felt like raw leather, his knees grew weak with hunger, his head throbbed in pain, his throat burned with suppressed tears. But whenever he felt that he simply could not hold out a moment longer, he thought of his cholent, envisioning what was happening to that piece of meat at that very moment: the steady crisping on the outside, the softening on the inside, the blending of flavors with the potatoes, beans, kishkeh and spices in the pot. Every minute longer, he kept telling himself, is another minute on the fire for my cholent.
An hour later, the cantor launched into another exceptionally moving piece. As his tremulous voice painted the awesome scene of divine judgment unfolding in the heavens, the entire shul broke down weeping once again. At this point, the dam burst in this simple Jew’s heart, for he well understood what was on his fellow worshippers’ minds. “Enough is enough!” he sobbed. “Never mind the cholent! It’s been cooking long enough! I’m hungry! I want to go home…!”
The Dividends of Exile
Galut is the state of physical exile and spiritual displacement in which we find ourselves since the destruction of the Holy Temple and the dispersion of the people of Israel more than nineteen centuries ago. On the most basic level, galut is the result of a series of national and individual failings – as we say in the mussaf prayer for the festivals, “Because of our sins, we were exiled from our land.” But Chassidic teaching explains that this is but the most external face of exile; on a deeper level, the purpose of galut is to galvanize the Jewish soul and unearth its greatest resources, and to redeem the “sparks of holiness” buried in the farthest reaches of the material world.
In this sense, galut is a cholent – the longer it cooks, the better it gets. The more painful the galut, the more challenging its trials, the lowlier the elements it confronts us with – the greater its rewards. Every additional minute of galut represents deeper and vaster reserves of faith actualized, more “sparks of holiness” redeemed, and greater realization of the divine purpose in creation.
But there comes a point at which every Jew must cry out from the very depths of his being: “Enough already! The cholent has been cooking long enough! We want to come home!”
Tags: hunger, judgement, prayer, purpose, redemption, raising the sparks, gallus, Rosh Hashana, story, Divine, galut, divine sparks, meat, Parable, cholent, pain, creation, exile, challenges
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August 8th, 2015
The following is a freely-translated excerpt of a public letter by the Rebbe written the week before Rosh Hashanah of 5729 (1968):
A basic theme of Rosh Hashanah is that it effects the coronation of G-d as king of Israel and king of the universe, as expressed in our heartfelt prayer and request: “Reign over the entire world!”
Such a request implies the readiness to set oneself in full conformity with the divine sovereignty; that one is prepared to utterly submit to the divine king, to the point that one’s entire being, and all that one has, is the king’s alone. This is the meaning of kabalat ol—“the acceptance of the yoke” of the divine sovereignty, which finds expression in all areas of daily life.
In truth, every day must bring an acceptance of the yoke of Heaven, particularly when one recites the Shema. But there exists a most basic difference: on the daily level, kabalat ol, while being the inaugural and fundamental act of the day, is merely the basis upon which one’s behavior throughout the day is predicated. Rosh Hashanah, however, is a time when submission to the sovereignty of Heaven is also the quality and content of the day, pervading the entire person and manifesting itself in everything he does.
* * *
Every period and every locality has its special qualities and its specific difficulties.
In our time, there is a prevailing trend in many circles toward increased self-sufficiency and independence, not only in regard to material matters, but in ideological matters as well; an increasing unwillingness to submit to the established order, to accept things before they are fully understood by one’s own mind, and so on. This, it would seem, represents a challenge to the concept of kabalat ol.
This is particularly the case in countries that are (relatively) young and which were established upon a foundation of self-initiative and youthful energy, and where this spirit characterizes the entire structure of personal and communal life—all of which make it more difficult to conform with the criteria of kabalat ol.
Notwithstanding the above, we have the axiom that G-d does not demand from a person something that is beyond his capacity. Since the submission to the sovereignty of G-d is the essence of Rosh Hashanah (and the foundation of all our deeds throughout the year), this is obviously applicable to all times and places. Certainly, it is possible and incumbent upon us to achieve a full acceptance of the divine kingship also in our time, and also in the above-mentioned circumstances.
Indeed, there is a special quality to our kabalat ol particularly in our time and in this part of the world. A person who is not conditioned to complete self-sufficiency but is accustomed to independence in certain areas but not in others—when such a person accepts something unquestioningly, this does not constitute a thorough and unequivocal acceptance. For such a person is accustomed to being told what to do and is often compelled to yield his will and modify his opinions. On the other hand, when a person who, as a rule, does not surrender his independence and his convictions is convinced that he must recognize and submit to a higher authority, this decision is made on a much deeper and more fundamental level and is substantiated by a total and immutable commitment.
Tags: Rebbe's letters, independence, sovereignty, Rosh Hashana, deed, challenge, connection with G-d, heaven, crowning the King
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August 8th, 2015
The hour for sounding the shofar in the synagogue of the “Seer of Lublin” (Rabbi Yaakov Yitzchak Horowitz, d. 1815) had long passed on that Rosh HaShanah morning, yet the great Chassidic sage remained secluded in his study. Finally, one of the Seer’s disciples, Rabbi Dovid of Lelov, was dispatched on the fearful mission of knocking on his master’s door to ask what was amiss.
The Seer’s face, as glimpsed beyond the partially opened door, was pale with terror and his eyes red with weeping.
“I see a terrible decree ordained in the Heavenly court for the people of Israel this year,” he told his disciple. “I’ve been praying and pleading all morning, amassing all my merits in Heaven in my efforts to nullify the decree, but to no avail.”
Noticing a young boy with Rabbi Dovid, the Seer asked: “Who is the lad?”
“His name is Yitzchak,” said Rabbi Dovid. “He is an orphan whom I’ve taken into my home.”
“Come inside,” said the Seer to the two of them, opening wide the door to his study.
Much to Rabbi Dovid’s surprise, the Seer launched into a Talmudic discussion with the boy. “What are you learning these days?” he inquired.
“We have just concluded a Talmudic section dealing with the laws of witnesses,” replied the young student, who would later be renowned as the Chassidic sage Rabbi Yitzchak of Vorki.
“So, tell me a chiddush (an original insight) that you’ve come up with in the course of your learning,” prompted the Seer.
The boy said that he had been puzzled by the law that a person cannot serve as a witness in a case involving a relative of his, whether his testimony is for his relative’s benefit or to his detriment. Understandably, a witness cannot be believed when he testifies in support of his relative; but why do we not accept his testimony against his relative?
“Well, do you also have an answer to your question?” asked the Seer of Lublin.
“Yes,” said the boy. “I thought of the verse, ‘And the two persons shall stand … before the judges,’ which the Talmud interprets as a reference to the witnesses.[1] The Torah is saying that only ‘persons’ are qualified to serve as witnesses. Someone who is prepared to testify against his own brother, father or child is not a ‘person.’”
“My son!” exclaimed the Seer. “With this argument we shall win our case in the Heavenly court. We shall remind G-d that He is our father. And what father can possibly condemn his own children? Come, let us go hear the sounding of the shofar.”
—————-
[1]. Deuteronomy 19:17; Talmud, Shevuot 30a.
Tags: Jewish law, Chassidic stories, Seer of Lublin, shofar, Heavenly court, forgiveness, family, judgement, children, Rosh Hashana, teshuvah, father, Talmud
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August 8th, 2015
by Dovi Sheiner
The materialistic spiritualist — how’s that for an oxymoron? Yet that’s precisely what we are on Rosh Hashanah.
Rosh Hashanah is the anniversary of the creation of man. On the first day of his life, Adam, the first man, encouraged his fellow creations to acknowledge the reality of a Higher Being: “Come! Let us prostrate ourselves and bow, let us kneel before G-d, our Maker.”[1] Each year on Rosh Hashanah, we relive this experience by acknowledging the supremacy of the Divine. We call upon G-d to involve Himself in our existence, enjoining Him to “reign with glory over the world in its entirety.” At the same time, being that Rosh Hashanah is the day on which G-d decides upon and assigns us our annual financial allotment, we pray also for our material needs.
These dual realities are seemingly contradictory. In our desire to establish G-d as King over all creation, it is incumbent upon us to follow His will regardless of concern for our personal benefit. This self-negation before a Divine ruler would seem to leave little room for individualized pleas for the allocation of our material needs.
Indeed, this awkward juxtaposition calls into question the essential compatibility of our material and spiritual spheres. When striving to carry out the will of his Creator, is man justified in requesting the fulfillment of his personal desires?
Eli the Priest said “No!” In the Haftorah of Rosh Hashanah, a long-childless Hannah poured out her impassioned plea to G-d to “give Your maidservant male offspring.”[2] Eli the Priest, observing this scene at the Sanctuary in Shiloh, was filled with disapproval, deeming Hannah’s mention of her personal needs while standing before G-d a form of self-intoxication. “How long will you be drunk?” he censured Hannah. “Remove your wine from yourself!”[3]
But for a Jew, the material is really a means to a spiritual end. Requests for prosperity and plenty are therefore consistent with the goal of establishing G-d’s supremacy throughout creation. By assuming ownership of a physical object and utilizing it in one’s service of G-d, the Jew succeeds in expanding the G-dly domain to include this article as well—his material possession newly spiritualized.
Where on a conscious level, man’s pleas for material plenty might appear to be a desire to satisfy his self, in reality they are motivated by the workings of his soul. Commenting on the verse, “Hungry as well as thirsty, their soul fainted within them,”[4] the Baal Shem Tov explains[5] how the physical hunger and thirst of the body is rooted in a spiritual craving of the soul, a desire to release the G-dly sparks trapped within a given dish or drink.
So went the retort of Hannah before Eli the Priest: “I have drunk neither wine nor strong drink, and I have poured out my soul before G-d.”[6] Hannah argued that her prayers were not rooted in her sense of self, but in her soul; not born of a selfish wish, but of her need to serve G-d selflessly. This truth was evidenced in Hannah’s pledge to dedicate her offspring to the service of G-d. She promised that if G-d fulfilled her request and gave her a son: “then I shall give him to G-d all the days of his life.”[7]
Registering Hannah’s response, Eli adjusted his tone in support of her prayer: “Go in peace! The G-d of Israel will grant the request you have made of Him.”[8] With these words, Eli the Priest forever afforded credibility to the lifestyle of the materialistic spiritualist.
Adapted from Likkutei Sichos vol. 19, Rosh Hashanah
———————
[5] Kesser Shem Tov, Siman 194 (25,3).
Tags: crowning the King, Divine service, Priest, selflessness, relationships, spiritual and material, materialism, Rosh Hashana, soul, divine sparks, prayer, connection with G-d, Dovi Sheiner, creation, Hannah
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August 7th, 2015
Man’s quest to serve his Creator is perpetual and all-consuming, and can be pursued by all people, at all times, and in all places. There was one event, however, that represented the apogee in the human effort to come close to G-d—an event that brought together the holiest day of the year, the holiest human being on earth, the holiest place in the universe and the holiest of deeds. On Yom Kippur the Kohen Gadol (“High Priest”) would enter into the “Holy of Holies” (the innermost chamber of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem) to offer ketoret to G-d.
The offering of the ketoret was the most prestigious and sacred of the Temple services. The ketoret was a special blend of eleven herbs and balms whose precise ingredients and manner of preparation were commanded by G-d to Moses.[1] Twice a day, the ketoret was burned on the “golden altar” that stood in the Temple.[2] On Yom Kippur, in addition to the regular ketoret offerings, the Kohen Gadol would enter the Holy of Holies with a pan of smoldering coals in his right hand and a ladle filled with ketoret in his left; there he scooped the ketoret into his hands, placed it over the coals, waited for the chamber to fill with the fragrant smoke of the burning incense, and swiftly backed out of the room.[3] The moment marked the climax of the Yom Kippur service in the Temple.
Holy Deodorizer
Maimonides describes the function of the ketoret as the vanquishing of the unpleasant odors that might otherwise have pervaded the Holy Temple.
“Since many animals were slaughtered in the sacred place each day, their flesh butchered and burnt and their intestines cleaned, its smell would doubtless have been like the smell of a slaughterhouse… Therefore G-d commanded that the ketoret be burned twice a day, each morning and afternoon, to lend a pleasing fragrance to [the Holy Temple] and to the garments of those who served in it.” [4]
But Maimonides’ words carry a significance that extends beyond their superficial sense. In the words of Rabbeinu Bechayei:
“G-d forbid that the great principle and mystery of the ketoret should be reduced to this mundane purpose.” [5]
Chassidic teaching explains that the animal sacrifices offered in the Holy Temple represent the person’s offering of his own “animal soul”[6] to G-d—the subjugation of his natural instincts and desires to the divine will. This is the deeper significance of the “foul odor” emitted by the sacrifices which the ketoret came to dispel: the “animal soul” of man, which is the basic drive, common to every livining creature, for self-preservation and self-enhancement, possesses many positive traits which might readily be directed toward gainful and holy ends; but it is also the source of many negative and destructive traits. When a person brings his animal self to the Temple of G-d and offers what is best and finest in it upon the altar, there is still the “foul odor”—the selfishness, the brutality and the materiality of the animal in man—to contend with. Hence the ketoret, which possessed the unique capability to sublimate the evil odor of the animal soul within its heavenly fragrance.
Essence and Utility
This, however, still does not define the essence of the ketoret. For if the more external parts of the Temple might be susceptible to the foul odor emitted by the “animal souls” offered there, the Holy of Holies was a sanctum of unadulterated holiness and perfection. If the “garments” (i.e., character and behavior[7]) of the ordinary Kohen might be affected by the negative smell of the “slaughtered beasts” that he handled, this is certainly not the case with the Kohen Gadol, “the greatest of his brethren”[8] in the fraternity of divine service. If every day of the year the scent of evil hovers at the periphery of even the most positive endeavor, Yom Kippur is a day in which:
“There is no license for the forces of evil to inculpate.” [9]
So if the ketoret was offered by the Kohen Gadol in the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur, its ultimate function cannot be the sublimation of evil.
The sublimation of evil is something that only the ketoret can achieve, but this is not what defines its essence. The essence of the ketoret is a pristine yearning of the soul of man to come close to G-d, a yearning that emanates from the innermost sanctum of the soul and is thus free of all constraint and restraints, of all that inhibits and limits us when we relate to something with the more external elements of our being.[10] Its purity and perfection is what gives the ketoret the power to sweeten the foulest of odors, but dealing with evil is not what it is all about. On the contrary, its highest expression is in the utterly evil-free environments of Yom Kippur and the Holy of Holies.
Bringing the Past In Line
Today, the Holy Temple no longer stands in Jerusalem, and the Kohen Gadol enters the Holy of Holies only in our recitation of the account of the Yom Kippur service in the prayers of the Holy Day and in our vision of a future Yom Kippur in the rebuilt Temple. But the ketoret remains a basic component of our service of G-d in general, and of our observance of Yom Kippur in particular. We are speaking, of course, of the spiritual ketoret, which exists within the human soul as the potential for teshuvah.
Like the incense that burned in the Holy Temple, the manifest function of teshuvah is to deal with negative and undesirable things. On the day-to-day, practical level, teshuvah is “repentance”— a response to wrongdoing, a healing potion for the ills of the soul. But teshuvah is also the dominant quality of Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year. Obviously, there is more to teshuvah than the neutralization of sin.
The word teshuvah means “return”: return to pristine beginnings, return to the intrinsic perfection of the soul. For the essence of the soul of man, which is “a spark of G-dliness,” is immune to corruption. The inner self of man remains uninvolved in the follies of the ego, untouched by the outer self’s enmeshment in the material and the mundane. Teshuvah is the return to one’s true self, the cutting through of all those outer layers of misguided actions and distorted priorities to awaken one’s true will and desire.
This explains how teshuvah achieves atonement for past sins. Teshuvah enables the sinner to touch base with his own inherent goodness, with that part of himself which never sinned in the first place. In a sense, he has now acquired a new self, one with an unblemished past; but this “new self” is really his own true self come to light, while his previous, corrupted “self” was but an external distortion of his true being.
Only teshuvah has such power over the past; only teshuvah can “undo” a negative deed. But this is only one of the “uses” of the power of return. Teshuvah is not only for sinners, but also for the holiest person in the holiest time and the holiest place. For even the perfectly righteous individual needs to be liberated from the constraints of the past.
Even the perfectly righteous individual is limited—limited because of knowledge not yet acquired, insights still ungained, feelings yet to be developed, attainments still unachieved; in a word, limited by time itself and the tyranny of its “one way only” traffic law. As we advance through life, we conquer these limits, gaining wisdom and experience and refining and perfecting our self and character. But is our ability to grow and achieve limited to the future only? Is the past a closed frontier?
But one who adopts the inward-seeking approach of teshuvah to everything he does, never leaves an imperfect past behind at the waysides of his life. When he learns something new, he uncovers the deeper dimension of his own self which was always aware of this truth; when he refines a new facet of his personality, he brings to light the timeless perfection of his soul. Never satisfied in merely moving forward, his search for his own true self remakes the past as well.
Based on the Rebbe’s talks, Simchat Torah 5727 (1966); Sivan 14, 5746 (June 21, 1986); and on other occasions[11]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1]. Exodus 30:34-38; see Talmud, Keritot 6a and Jerusalem Talmud, Yoma 4:5.
[2]. Exodus, ibid., vs. 8-9.
[3]. Leviticus 16:12-13; Talmud, Yoma 5:1 (mishnah).
[4]. Guide for the Perplexed, part III, ch. 45.
[5]. Rabbeinu Bechayei on Torah, Exodus 30:1.
[6]. As Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi elaborates in his Tanya, every person possesses two souls: an “animal soul” that is the essence of his physical self, and a “G-dly soul” that embodies his drive for self-transcendence and union with G-d.
[7] . See Tanya, chs. 4 and 6.
[10] . Cf. Zohar, part III, 288a.
[11] . Likkutei Sichot, vol. XIV, pp. 129-131; Hitvaaduyot 5746, vol. III, pp. 583-584; et al.
Tags: purity, Holy of Holies, Yom Kippur, truth, Rebbe, chassidism, teshuvah, animal soul, soul, transforming darkness, inner self, sacrifices and offerings, Beis Hamikdash
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August 7th, 2015
How [does one fulfill] the mitzvah of dwelling in the sukkah? One should eat, drink, and live in the sukkah, both day and night, as one lives in one’s house on the other days of the year: for seven days a person should make his home his temporary dwelling, and his sukkah his permanent dwelling
Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim 639:1
G-d says… “I have one easy mitzvah, and sukkah is its name”
Talmud, Avodah Zarah 3a
“In sukkot you shall dwell for seven days,” instructs the Torah, “…in order that your generations shall know that I made the children of Israel dwell in sukkot when I took them out of the land of Egypt.” [1]
Our sages, noting the Torah’s use of the verb “to dwell” in the above verses, define the mitzvah of sukkah as a commandment that, for the duration of the festival of Sukkot (Tishrei 15 to 21), the sukkah is to become our primary dwelling place. Everything ordinarily done in the home should be done in the sukkah.[2]
So every autumn, just as the weather is turning inhospitable, we move outdoors. For a full week, we exchange our regular home for a home which leaves us at the mercy of the elements, demonstrating our trust in G-d’s providence and protection, as our ancestors did when “following Me in the wilderness, in an uncultivated land.”[3]
Dwelling in the sukkah for seven days is a beautiful and inspiring experience; however, one would hardly describe it as “easy.” Yet this is the mitzvah singled out by the Talmud as G-d’s “easy mitzvah”!
The Commanding Connection
“Mitzvah,” the Torah’s word for the divine precepts which guide and govern our lives, has a dual meaning: the word means both “commandment” and “connection.”
In commanding us the mitzvot, G-d created the means through which we may establish a connection with Him. The hand that distributes charity, the mind that ponders the wisdom of Torah, the heart that soars in prayer, even the stomach that digests the matzah eaten on the first night of Passover—all become instruments of the divine will. There are mitzvot for each limb, organ and faculty of man, and mitzvot governing every area of life, so that no part of us remains uninvolved in our relationship with the Creator.
Therein lies the uniqueness of the mitzvah of sukkah. While other mitzvot each address a certain aspect of our persona, the mitzvah of sukkah provides a medium by which the totality of man is engaged in the fulfillment of G-d’s will. All of the person enters into and lives in the sukkah. “Sukkah is the only mitzvah into which a person enters with his muddy boots,” goes the Chassidic saying. For the seven days of Sukkot, the sukkah is our home—the environment for our every endeavor and activity.
Man and Turf
The specialty of the sukkah as an all-embracing medium of connection with G-d is best understood in light of the significance of the “home” to the human being.
Our sages point out how deeply rooted is man’s desire for a home. The desire for a home is much more than the need for shelter and security—the satisfaction of these needs alone, without a plot of land to call one’s own, does not satisfy the craving for a home. The Talmud goes so far as to say that:
“One who does not possess a homestead is not a man.” [4]
The need for a home is intrinsic to the soul of man and a defining aspect of the human state.
Thus, a person’s identification with his home is not confined to the hours he spends within its walls. Also when he is at work, visiting with friends or taking a stroll in the park, it is as the owner of this particular home that he works, visits or strolls. Since his very humanity is incomplete without it, it is part and parcel of everything he does.
For the seven days that we make the sukkah our home, it comes to form an integral part of our identity. Everything we do, including what we do outside of the sukkah, is included in the “connection” with G-d achieved by this mitzvah.
Easy as Life
Now we might understand why the mitzvah of sukkah is G-d’s “easy” mitzvah.
A person can approach the fulfillment of G-d’s commandments in one of two ways: as a duty, or as the purpose of his existence.
The “dutiful” observer of the mitzvot sees the purpose of his life in the realization of his own personal ambitions. At the same time, he recognizes that G-d is the master of the universe and is the one who created him, granted him life, and continues to sustain him in every moment of his existence. So he feels duty-bound to obey G-d’s commandments.
But then there is the person who understands that:
“I was not created, but to serve my Creator.” [5]
He recognizes this as his true “I” and as the ultimate fulfillment and realization of who and what he is.
If one assumes the first approach, regarding the observance of a mitzvah as a duty, there will be both “difficult” and “easy” mitzvot. One might fulfill them all, perhaps even willingly and joyfully, but some will be more pleasant and inspiring, others more tedious and toilsome. The expenditure of time, effort or money that a mitzvah requires will also affect the degree of difficulty one experiences in its fulfillment.
But when we see the fulfillment of the divine will as the very stuff of our life, the concept of a difficult mitzvah is nonexistent. All mitzvot are “easy,” for they do not constitute an imposition on our life—they are our life. Indeed, there will be no division between the mitzvah and “non-mitzvah” areas of our life. When we live to implement G-d’s purpose in creation, our entire life—including those activities which are not explicit mitzvah acts—becomes a single, seamless quest to connect to our Creator and serve His will.
All mitzvot can be observed in either of the above ways; but there is one mitzvah whose terms of observance call for nothing less than the second approach. The mitzvah of sukkah does not tell us to do something; it tells us to be something—a sukkah-dweller. The way to observe this mitzvah is to make the sukkah our home—our environment, our roots, our very identity—for seven days of each year of our life.[6]
And when we apply the model of the mitzvah of sukkah to our observance of all of G-d’s commandments, they, too, assume the all-embracing quality of the sukkah. They, too, become as “easy” as life.
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Sukkot 5716 (1955)[7]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[2]. Talmud, Sukkah 28b; Mishneh Torah, Laws of Sukkah 6:5; Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim 639:1. This also defines when a person is not obligated to do something in the sukkah: one is not obligated to eat or sleep in the sukkah when, under similar conditions, one would not do so in one’s own home (Talmud, ibid.; Shulchan Aruch, ibid., subsections 2 and 5).
[4]. Talmud, Yevamot 63a, as per Tosafot, ibid., s.v. she’ein lecha.
[5]. Talmud, Kiddushin 82b.
[6]. This is also why the festival of Sukkot derives its name from the mitzvah of sukkah, and not from its other mitzvot (e.g., the taking of the “Four Kinds”).
[7]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. II, pp. 417-418.
Tags: commandments, fulfillment, purpose of existence, Divine will, Sukkot, home, Yanki Tauber, purpose of life, Divine, mitzvot, sukkah, connection
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